


Falling Together

by namio



Category: AR∀GO ロンドン市警特殊犯罪捜査官 | Arago
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, Attempted Murder, Crime Fighting, Death Threats, Emotional Baggage, Gen, Murder Mystery, Platonic Female/Male Relationship(s), The twins finally actually talk to each other, Violence, tags will be added as I go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 01:08:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3590613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/namio/pseuds/namio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a case brings the twins back together, all Arago wants to do is leave.  But as the killer raises the stake for Ewan, they both realise that life is too short to not say sorry.</p><p>Summary subject to change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Truth can never be told so as to be understood and not be believed.”

William Blake

 

* * *

 THE POISON TREE

* * *

 ONE.

 

 He melted into the night like a white shadow.

Things in the dark were like bright lights: with the fading of the noise, the buzz grew louder, and Arago found himself grimacing at the drumming inside his head as he leaned against the wall. Beside him the silhouettes shifted like reflections of a funhouse mirror, looming and alive, but the London rush hour was a faint memory here. The dark was nothing to the headache. But late January spread like roots in the air, gripping to the cold, and Arago shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, silently cursing his sensitive nerves.

It wasn’t so bad in his childhood, he thought. Usually things flared when he was out and about, and he waved it off as stress from his surroundings. The fact that it had also been torturing him during the years he’d gone affirmed that. But the sound of footsteps-- fifty metres away, he estimated-- broke his reverie and rang alarms in his head. His hand slipped into his pocket to touch the comforting cold of steel. 

“I-I-- I s-swear I’ll--”

“Too late for that,” a thin, smiling voice said. A step forward, a bated breath. Arago’s eyes narrowed and his fingers grasped for the grip.

When he pulled it out of his pocket and stepped out of the shadows, ready to stop the other, a faint choking sound reached him.

A man lied dead, head pouring blood, and there was no trace of the killer.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prologue is short, sorry. Update might be sporadic and inconsistent, but I will try not to take years doing it.


	2. Chapter 2

TWO.

 

2300, A1009. 5 Russel Rd.

The officers were just putting up the tape when Ewan parked, eyes alert and a frown thinning his mouth. The street lights barely lit up the crime scene, but even with his fogged glasses he could see the body on the street, limp on a pool of wine red. Two were by it, taking pictures, while another stood off to the side with a person-- perhaps a witness. Ewan nodded at the one putting up the crime tape, ducking under it as he flashed a formal smile.

He could hear another car arrive.

“You’re late,” Ewan said. The man behind him snorted. “Your nephew won’t let you go?”

“More like you’ve been driving like a lunatic again, Hunt,” Larry answered. “One of these days not even your incessant reminder about seat belts will save you.”

His mind flashed to the stack of threats sitting on his coffee table and his smile twisted into a neutral line. He didn’t doubt it, really. But he wasn’t alone in that regard, and he shouldn’t act like he was. Ewan looked up and grinned instead. “My driving is perfect. You’re just jealous you can’t pull off my hairpin turns.”

He laughed at Larry’s grumblings about ‘not wanting to die from concrete to the face’ and ‘insane luck’. “All right, all right. Do you want to handle the body or should I?”

“I don’t feel like dealing with people right now,” Larry answered, taking a pair of rubber gloves from one of the officers. “You go talk with the witness.”

Larry rarely _did_ talk with witnesses, Ewan mused. The man was a bit like old movies cops: blunt, honest, a bit rough on the edges. Never looked the part, really, but he was it. Ewan grabbed his own pair, taking in a look of the body as he pulled them on.

“It’s been only two weeks,” Larry muttered. His voice dropped with those words, but he could hear him clearly despite the calls and shouts of the investigators around them.

“Yeah,” Ewan said, voice soft.

East London killings, they said. First victim: a man, 42 years old, found at Barkingside. The second was a woman, 25, dead on East Ham. The third was another man, this time 23 and on Emerson Park, and that got it its nickname. There was only a thin thread connecting the three cases into a serial killing: same uncategorisable, unknown murder weapon, same lack of lead, and same death threats to the detectives on the case.

Within three days of the investigation, when they found their first evidence, each of them received notes promising their demise.

And with the steadily climbing numbers of victims, that number was going to grow. They were going to assign more detectives into the case before it blew over the media, and Ewan had tried asking for reconsideration. His pleas were brushed off. Nobody came forward with the notes promising to lovingly break each of their bones, to break their skin with a whip for each step forward they took.

But what prompted the MPS to send out more of their detectives was the fact that the witnesses all received letters, leading several to seek out the witness protection programme. He received copies of the letters. He hadn’t more than five hours of sleep for the past few days.

“--an I go now? ‘Told you everything I know.”

Ewan froze.

“We need your phone number, in case we need you to testify.”

“Haven’t had a phone for two years,” the familiar voice grumbled. “Haven’t had a home in months either. Been on the road.”

“You’re probably going to get a subpoena, you know?” the officer said. “You’re the only witness.”

Arago’s voice rose. “I didn’t say I’m not going to testify, did I? I’m just saying that I didn’t have a phone number. Or a permanent living. Quit twisting my words.”

Biting his lips, Ewan took a second of contemplation before stepping forward, trying to keep his face as neutral as he could. Hearing his footsteps, Arago turned and took a step back, eyes wide. “Is everything all right here?”

The officer turned. “Ah, Detec-- wait a moment.”

The awkward silence felt more noticeable than the body on the street. Still, Ewan tried to maintain his persona as the officer gaped at him. Must have been new to the case. Or to the force. Ewan had been on cases for so long, it felt like the majority of the officers handling the crime scene were his friends. They would recognise Arago.

“You’re identical.”

Ewan flashed the most polite smile he could given the situation. Arago narrowed his eyes and took a step back, spreading his legs into an aggressive stance. “I think you might as well put in my number and address for the witness right now," Ewan said. "I’ll talk with him.”

 

* * *

 

“You witnessed a murder.”

“I had nothing to do with it,” Arago hissed, arms crossed. Ewan resisted the urge to run his hand through his face. It was back to this, time and time again. He felt like he had gone back to his high school years, where the times when Arago was nice was always woven with the times all Arago believed was Ewan’s inherent distrust. It hurt. That feeling hadn’t dissipated.

“I’m not saying you did, Arago. I’m just… You came back.”

Arago didn’t answer, but he shot a flat look, as if to say ‘ _definitely_ not _for you_ ’. Ewan felt something in him clench in resignation. But now was not a time for such problems: there was a bigger one at hand, and it was the only thing keeping his voice even.

“Stay with me until the trial,” Ewan said. “Just until the trial.”

Arago pushed himself away from the walls, eyes narrowed. He acted more like a feral animal than a human at times, but only when he was involved. Ewan’s mouth soured whenever he thought of how it all came to this. Still, whatever bitter past they had needed to be pushed aside for Arago’s safety. The request was selfish, but Ewan would rather be selfish if it meant that Arago would be safe.

“Case above all. Typical.”

“It’s not that.” He clicked his tongue. “The killer… He doesn’t take kindly to witnesses. The past few ones all got death threats for nearly an entire month now. We don’t know how he knows, but I have a feeling you won’t be an exception. Stay with me.”

“Oy, Hunt,” Larry called. Ewan turned his head to see the man still staring at the corpse as he rose, bags of evidences in his hands. The same weapon: an arrowhead, thin and carved with little runes that were now still obscured with blood. The print was still in his mind, burned through his eyelids. “What’s taking you so-- oh.”

Larry. The thing about Larry was that they were close friends, and he was the one person who would not ask the obvious. Ewan was glad, because he did not feel like explaining Arago at the moment. “Give me a minute, Larry.”

“Take your time,” Larry said. “Have fun.”

If only.

Ewan turned to Arago with resignation on his face. He really had no cards left. "I won't be home most of the time, you don't have to deal with me. I just want you to be safe. Just until the threat passes, okay?"

Arago looked away. "What's the difference between your place or anywhere anyway?"

"It's harder to get away with torturing someone alive when there are concerned neighbours."

He never told any of his neighbours about any threats, although he reminded the nice old couple on the ground floor to be careful as they might be especially vulnerable. Still, there was a kind of bond in the small building-- both from the fact that they were concerned for their own well being and from the family-like atmosphere kindled in the years-- that added to the security. Ewan knew everyone, and they knew him. They would be cautious about strangers when a case hit the news. They knew his work.

But Arago didn’t seem to be swayed. Something in his eyes still shone with distrust and Ewan knew he was the only one to blame. Had he not succumbed to his own childish emotions years ago, Arago wouldn’t have left. At the very least, he wouldn’t think that Ewan thought so little of their parents.

Ewan still laid flowers to their graves.

“Fine,” Arago said. Ewan looked up, surprised. “I’ll stay. But as soon as this case is over, I’m going back.”

He wanted to cry in relief. Letting out a small smile, Ewan murmured his thanks before making his way back to the bustle of the crime scene. Never press for confirmations with Arago, he learned back in his childhood. Amongst its ranks were also ‘never nag’ and ‘never question a yes’.

He could only hope that Arago didn’t slip out and leave when he wasn’t looking.

Larry approached him when he noticed Ewan walking back to the scene. “Done talking?”

“Managed to convince him to stay,” Ewan said. “The threat is probably coming this morning. While maybe it might not find him when he’s hitting the road, they would also have more ways to kill him and get away with it.”

Larry frowned. “I guess I see your point. Why not convince him to go on witness protection?”

The six witnesses so far were offered it after the threat. Three took it, terrified of the promise of a slow torture, while the other three eventually rejected when they realised that they would have to drag their families into it. Ewan promised to find the killer as fast as humanly possible. Still, humanly possible was a vague boundary. He and Larry-- and quickly, the rest of the Murder Investigation Teams-- could not find a killer based on a triangular piece of carved metal.

“Arago? Witness protection?” Ewan chuckled at the thought. He wouldn’t even run away from Patchman. “It’s easier to convince him to stay and fight than to run away. He’s like that.”

They walked back to the body, where the officers drawing the outlines finished and drew away. They nodded as some others-- Alise and Damian, he was sure-- came over and handed Ewan their papers. Larry snorted. “Sounds like he’s your twin all right, Hunt.”

Ewan only cracked a small smile as he read the reports. Nothing different: arrowhead with unknown carvings, embedded into the brain. Estimated time of death less than an hour, approximately 45 minutes according to witness. Murder weapon entered from the front-- not surprising, although one victim died with a shot from the back-- and the victim bled to death after several minutes. Even if Arago was there, there was nothing he could do. Frowning, Ewan turned to the next page.

The questionnaire for the witness. Name, Arago Hunt. Age, 23, no occupation, remembered that the time was around 10 p.m. when he went to the dead end and heard the victim stuttering several words. Then the murderer replied--

Ewan gripped Larry’s shoulder, eyes wide.

“Hunt?”

“ _Arago heard the murderer._ ”

Larry snatched the papers off his hands. “What?”

Fifty metres away, Arago heard the murderer’s own voice telling the victim that it was too late. And there were two things that terrified Ewan now: first, Arago was a far more important-- and thus threatened-- witness than they first suspected. Second, Arago was a sentinel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I doubt that was a surprise, really.  
> Three guesses for the weapon, and the last two don't count.
> 
> Short chapter, but I'm hoping that it will grow as things unfold. Chapters after this might take longer, as I'd like to run them through a reader first, but it's with the hope that it will come out better. Til next time!


	3. Three

THREE.

 

The police officers and SOCOs were wrapping up when Larry walked up to Ewan’s side, elbowing him. Ewan glanced at him with bleary eyes, fatigue of a long day and night catching up to him. They both had been working since last night-- Ewan frankly had not gone home yet-- and this new addition was exhausting mentally and physically, but they had no time to rest.

“How did you _not_ know your twin is a sentinel?” Larry hissed.

“He never told anyone about any headaches or the like,” Ewan answered, voice low. It was approaching four a.m. and though Arago was inside the car, possibly asleep, they were still in a residential area and sounds seemed louder in the silence. “And he was always like that, I guess. Notices a lot of stuff despite his activeness. I always thought that it’s just another way he’s made for the job more than I am.”

Arago had always been eerily good at knowing things. Ewan couldn’t remember a time where he successfully kept a secret from him, at least not when he said it out loud. Then there was the fact that he always confronted anyone and called them out on their actions regardless of consequences. It scared Ewan at times-- _that’s a boy twice your size_ \-- but he admired it all the same. Because that was how a police officer and detective were supposed to be. Because Arago would demand the truth no matter what. Ewan rarely had the heart and courage to do that.

He never really thought that it might be something more.

“You know what that means, right?” Larry said, breaking his reverie.

Ewan blinked.

“Huh?”

Larry waved a hand, now gloved in wool. “His guide has been present since your childhood. And they’re fairly involved in his life. I mean, designated guide or no, he’d still need actual guidance instead of just presence. If they’re just there without actually telling him how to snap out of it, he would still have problems.”

Ewan frowned. That was true. Designated guides often have a calming aura to their sentinels. Something about being a picture of comfort, they said-- everyone had a certain set of subconscious associations when it comes to feelings of calmness. Some preferred wordless reassurance. Others preferred visible body language, or subtle shifts, or loud affirmations. In any case, the sentinel’s heightened senses often detect these things and if the person they see emanated the comforting body language, they would unconsciously associate the person with calmness. Of course, there was a shared strategy amongst guides when it came to refocusing their sentinels back to Earth, but effectiveness differed between pairs.

But even with the subtle language, the guide would still need to actively teach their sentinels how to control their bouts of hypersensitivity. Reliance on the guide was universally accepted as not ideal, if not bad-- guides, being humans, die. If they die before their sentinels, the latter would be subject to a lifetime of mild to severe headache and nausea. And so guides often gave instructions on how to calm down, ranging from taking a deep breath to finding the nearest darkest, quietest place and imagining a colour.

But Ewan couldn’t remember a person who stayed in their lives for long, much less one that got past Arago’s defences and taught him these things.

“Figures that you’d get stumped at that,” Larry said. “It’s probably you, twat.”

“You do know that seeing me just makes him angry, right?” Ewan said. Admitting it hurt, but he accepted that fact long ago. “If I’m his guide, I’m doing a _fantastic_ job at it.”

Larry looked like he was going to smack him on the head and was doing a poor job of holding the urge in. His expression looked like a cross between frustration and disbelief, shifting between the two as he tried to form words that would convey his thoughts. It wasn’t the easiest thing this early in the morning, much less after staring at yet another dead body.

“Angry or not, you did a darn good job if he never whined about having a headache. You being his guide and him being furious at you are two unrelated things. His emotional outbursts don't affect the fact that your presence physically calms him. Unless you're telling me that it does."

"How am I supposed to know?"

And Larry shot him a look that promised a future talk. A long, extended talk.

But not at four in the morning. “All right,” Ewan said after several moments of silence. “I’m going to call the others. We’ll meet up at seven. I’ll bring breakfast.”

Larry nodded, exhausted.

Ewan clasped his shoulder before heading for his car. And though the windows were white with fog, he could see Arago’s silhouette in shotgun, head leaning to the side as he seemingly dozed off. Smiling, Ewan tried to open his door as quietly as he could and slipped into his seat. His eyes burned, but it should be fine. The streets were empty at this hour anyway.

But still.

Ewan reached over and fastened Arago’s seatbelt.

 

* * *

 

 

Ewan pulled up into the parking space and sighed as he turned off the engine. It was still early, but still too late for a quick nap-- he couldn’t take one if he wanted to leave early enough to get some of the day’s special at the bakery, which was apple strudel, Det. Saab’s favourite. He preferred to start off his squad’s-- and at times fellow detectives’-- days with a good note, and now doubly so with the blanket of hopelessness starting to envelop the MIT.

“Arago? Arago, we’re here.”

It took several moments and attempts to wake him up, but Arago stumbled out of the car at last, hands reaching out to find something to guide him. Ewan stifled a grin as he herded him into the the apartment.

The door opened with a quiet click and Ewan sighed in relief to see the room still somewhat organised. Saving Arago from bumping against the coffee table, he made a mental note to move the threat notes from their place on the table and hide them somewhere. But first, he needed to get Arago to bed.

“Hnn?”

The bedroom door made a small creak as he pushed it open, but the sound was lost amongst the noises Arago made as he bumped against the wall. Shaking his head, Ewan guided him to the bed. Now to get him ready for bed. The jacket had to come off, and so he peeled it off and draped it over the chair by the desk. Arago’s shoes went next-- kicked off to the side as he wrestled with the covers-- and with that done his eyes closed again, breath evening out. He looked a lot more peaceful, Ewan mused. But once he woke up, he doubted he’d be as serene. He never did like being under Ewan’s care. Too stifling.

Too many bad memories.

“Good night, Arago.”

And with that, he closed the door.

The darkness in the living room started to cloud his mind so Ewan flipped on the switch, stretching as he walked back to the couch. The scarf and gloves made a dull sound as he dropped them on the table before he took off his trenchcoat and hooked it on the coat rack. Looking at it reminded him that he needed to do laundry. He probably should also chuck in Arago’s shirt while he’s at it. And find the shirts he knew were _somewhere_ within the apartment, unused as he spent more and more time wearing his dress shirts. And right. The notes.

His room was out of the question, and he’d rather not put them in the kitchen, where Arago was more than likely to rummage for things. Taking them with him was bad for his morale. Sighing, Ewan picked up the stack and hid them behind the table calendar. That’s one place, he supposed. Arago never touched calendars.

Ewan let out another sigh as he turned on the telly, making sure the sound was set to low. He had been watching cartoons-- or family movies, depending on the time-- for the past month, if only to avoid the news. It brought a bit more colour to the living room, too, which was so far, quite drab: pale or greyish green dominated his furniture, with the only bright colours being the light brown of wood and leaf green curtains. It was rather depressing at times. Rio would have a fit once she got to London.

Ah, Rio. He couldn’t forget that he promised to pick her up from the airport once she got there. Then he’d have to either find a bigger apartment or find her one, whichever they agreed to later. Frankly he’d been looking and had found a two bedroom apartment, since she’d need to spend three years here before she could apply at MET, but perhaps he might have to revise that plan to a three bedroom one.

But that was wishful thinking on his part.

“Let’s not think about that, Hunt,” he muttered to himself. “Back to case.”

He didn’t have the analysis of the newest murder, but he had the previous ones. Jerold Raeburn’s-- the latest victim, a man his age who was found on Emerson Park-- was on the top, barely separated from the others after last night’s reread. Same thing: arrowhead to the back of the head, bled to death. But this time there was a ripped photo on the body, dropped after the murder, and it seemed as though Jerold was giving someone a kiss. Ewan was hesitant to call it a jealousy-motivated murder, though. They were still trying to see if they could scan it and run a search for a match.

And well, he was hesitant because if it was, then they really were stuck.

The first one, Carl Acheson had a long red welt across his back, seemingly made before the man ran and got murdered in the streets. Both the witnesses and the autopsy confirmed that Carl had indeed been running prior to his death. There were nothing missing on his person.

The second one, however, was a different case: Nora Minow was found in her fiance’s apartment’s parking lot, lying next to her car. Although there were no other wounds barring the cause of death, her purse-- which her fiance said she brought-- was missing. They called her credit card company and found no strange occurrences. However, they couldn’t find them in her apartment either. Someone had taken them, and that someone was not any of the suspects.

If it weren’t for the strange weapon, these would not even be considered anywhere close to related.

And if their luck continued like this, the current victim was probably killed for a wholly unrelated reason. Maybe he forgot to feed the class fish. Or as Larry would have guessed, he ate it.

Sighing, Ewan dropped those documents back on the table and picked up the weapon analysis. The papers were slightly creased now, from being held so often-- but Ewan still couldn’t decipher the little inscription on the arrowhead, as shown in an attached photograph. Even without the blood, he couldn’t tell what it was supposed to symbolise. It certainly wasn’t Latin or Greek, and they even ran checks for old Celtic letters Ogham and Old Irish. Result? Nothing. Det. Jardine suggested that it was just gibberish, engraved to provide some sort of significance. At this point, Ewan was starting to believe that, too.

Then there was the fact that it was an arrowhead… without a shaft. ‘No actual slot, what the hell,’ Page had muttered, looking outside as he handed Ewan the document weeks ago. ‘It’s literally just an arrowhead-shaped piece of steel. Fairly bad quality, too. Frankly, I’m lost here, Det. Hunt. I tried everything I could. It’s literally just a piece of metal that somehow, someway managed to accelerate fast enough to embed itself inside a head.’

And if the weapons analyst and one of their brightest scientific minds was stumped, Ewan wasn’t sure they could approach it from that front.

But they couldn’t give up on this. Det. Sergeant Sullivan had already been assigned to the case, which meant that this was getting far too serious. This was a serial murder.

Running his fingers through his hair, Ewan picked up the analysis and headed to the kitchen to make a cuppa. He needed something to take his mind off things-- off the near future, where he’d have to hit the road again after three hours of sleep, where he would have to pick Rio up from the airport in a month, where he’d go back to worrying about Arago’s safety again. The future, where Arago would most likely disappear once more.

Perhaps five a.m. reveries weren’t the best thing for the busy mind.

The kettle whistled and Ewan hurried to turn off the stove before the sound could reach ear-splitting levels and wake Arago up. Letting out a tired sigh, he grabbed a cup and the rarely opened tea tin from his cabinet. Breakfast tea. Ewan hoped it wasn’t his only breakfast, at least. Pouring water into the sugarless cup, he let the leaves steep before pulling them out.

The strong taste left his throat dry. He had no idea whether it was the exhaustion or the scrambled state Arago’s return left him in, but there was something off in the way his tea went down, like fine sandpaper scratching his insides as it tumbled through. It wasn’t helping.

Perhaps he was mortal, after all.

 

* * *

 

 

The sky was still a dark slate blue when he left his apartment. He’d left the spare key-- which he never thought would be useful, but apparently it now was-- inside, in case Arago wanted to go out, and he also plastered a note inside his bedroom door.

_I’m heading back to MET. There’s bread in the pantry, eggs in the fridge. I’ll try to get dinner tonight.        - Ewan_

He really ought to go and buy some more food-- especially since Arago probably didn’t eat properly while he was on the streets-- but if he did that he’d be late. The others were probably still home, but it was almost six and staying at home only worsened the frustration boiling in him. At least if he was at work he could fool himself into thinking that they were getting somewhere.

But enough with pessimism. He was well acquainted with it, of course, but he couldn’t allow himself to become jaded. It was an all-too-easy trap to fall into. His dad talked about it once, while he carved wood. The steady, rhythmic motions had put Ewan in a trance back then, almost as well as his calm voice. _Being bad is easy, Ewan. What's hard is being good in the face of injustice._ It wasn’t an exact same scenario, but the logic worked: it was much easier to be pessimistic. True strength was remaining hopeful despite everything.

The streets were still fairly empty as he drove to the bakery. The lights were dim now and soon they’d be out, orange-white creeping above the houses. Ewan parked and walked into the bakery, taking in the aroma of the baking goods that hit him in the face.

"Welcome!"

Ewan smiled at the enthusiastic girl at the counter, cheery despite the hour. Her apron and mitts were dusted with flour. She stacked the loaves of rye bread onto the shelves before disappearing into another room, only to come out with a tray of apple strudel. The sweet aroma mingled with the other smells, filling the bakery with a mouthwatering scent.

“I’d like one of the apple strudel, please,” he said. “And a pain au chocolat. And four croissants.”

“For work?” she asked as she folded the box into shape, putting his order into it.

Ewan nodded.

“These are still really, really fresh so it should lift the spirits!”

He laughed. “I hope it will. Thank you.”

Positive notes. His mum always told him to keep everyone happy if he wanted their best, and to surround himself with energy to keep himself at his peak. This might be a little thing, but he learned to not take them for granted. He would savour everything as though they were his last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Iwi for proofreading this chapter for me!
> 
> More Ewan chapter, this time with more murder. Arago chapters will pop up sometime soon, I swear, but right now I want to establish the case first. Not to mention I would really like to establish Ewan's character, too, since introspection is but a part of him. He'll show his serious, irritated side soon. His niceness doesn't last forever, after all.
> 
> In case you're getting things a bit mixed up, the first victim is Carl Acheson, the second Nora Minow and the third Jerold Raeburn. The one Arago witnessed is the fourth victim.


End file.
